LUE 


M 


fT  I  3 


UC-NRLF 


BLUESTONE 


THE  M  ACM  ILL  AN  COMPANY 

KXW   YORK   •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO   •  DALLAS 
ATLANTA    •    SAN   FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON   •  BOMBAY    •  CALCUTTA 
MZLBOCRKI 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


BLUESTONE 

LYRICS 


BY 
MARGUERITE  WILKINSON 

AUTHOR  OP  "  NEW   VOICES  " 


iCrtn  flork 
THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

1920 

All  rigkU  r«Mr*«d 


,  1920 
Br  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Set  up'tnd  electrotyped.     Published  June,  1920. 


TO  J.  G.  W. 

COMRADE  BESIDE  ALL  SWIFT  RIVEB8 
THESE  AND  AI-T-  MY  8ONQS 


439ii5 


Thanks  are  due  to  the  editors  of  Contem 
porary  Verse,  Scribner's  Magazine,  the  North 
American  Review,  The  Nation,  The  Touch 
stone,  The  Independent,  The  Smart  Set, 
Poetry,  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  Ainslee's 
Magazine,  Everybody's  Magazine,  McCall's 
Magazine,  The  Farm  Journal,  The  Boston 
Evening  Transcript,  The  Forum,  and  The 
New  York  Times  for  permission  to  reprint 
here  poems  published  for  the  first  time  in 
these  periodicals. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

INTRODUCTION xiii 

BLUESTONE 1 

SONGS  FROM  BESIDE  SWIFT  RIVERS 

A  Chant  out  of  Doore 9 

I  Came  to  be  Alone 11 

The  Air 13 

Ghosts 14 

Song  of  Two  Wanderers 15 

Before  Dawn  in  the  Woods 17 

White  Magic 18 

By  a  Salmon  River 19 

This  Shall  be  the  Bond 20 

An  Oath  in  April 23 

Sunset 24 

Near  the  Rivers 25 

Silver  Waters 26 

"The  Really  Truly  Twirly  Whirly  Eel" 27 

Barefoot 29 

Berries 32 

A  Thought  when  Noon  is  Hot 34 

Green  Valleys 35 

SONGS  OF  POVERTY 

Debt 41 

To-day 42 

[fc] 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Tired 43 

Pawnbroker 44 

Passing  a  Friend 45 

Work 46 

Poverty 47 

PREFERENCES 

People 51 

Weather 55 

Music 56 

Food 57 

Colors 58 

Trees 59 

LOVE  SONGS 

An  Incantation 63 

A  Walk  in  Springtime 64 

A  Chant  of  Youth 65 

In  Passing 67 

Let  There  Be  Light 68 

Morning  and  Evening 69 

A  Song  for  my  Mate 71 

At  the  Last 72 

SONGS  OF  AN  EMPTY  HOUSE 

Vista 77 

Food  and  Clothing 79 

Childless 80 

For  the  Child  that  never  Was 

-The  End 83 

[*] 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

SONGS  OP  LAUGHTER  AND  TEARS 

-  A  Long  Song  of  Momus 87 

An  Elegy 91 

Garments 94 

In  a  Certain  Restaurant 96 

Garden  Song 98 

A  Song  for  Mother's  Day 100 

Birth 101 

To  my  Country 102 

Songs  of  Sun  and  Shadow 

1 103 

II 104 

III 105 

Time-Shadows 106 

WHIMS  FOR  POETS 

The  Winds Ill 

To  Seanchan 112 

Duty 113 

If  They  Will  not  Hear  Me 114 

Songs  I  Sang  Long  Ago 115 

CALIFORNIA  POEMS 

The  Mountain  Lilac  of  California 119 

A  Night  on  the  Beach 121 

These  for  Me 122 

The  Fog  Comes  in  at  Night 123 

To  the  Summer  Sun 124 

THE  PAGEANT 126 

Wl 


INTRODUCTION 

The  centuries,  speeding  us  through  the 
cycles  of  human  experience,  bring  us  back, 
from  time  to  time,  to  an  interest  in  old  things 
that  seem  new.  The  making  of  lyrics  with 
musical  melodies  that  belong  to  the  words 
because  they  have  grown  with  them  in  the 
mind  of  the  poet  is  no  new  thing.  But  in 
our  times  and  hi  our  language  it  has  been 
little  discussed.  Nevertheless,  I  believe  that 
such  melodies  exist  for  others,  even  to-day, 
as  they  do  for  me.  In  the  hope  of  learning 
more  about  them  and  about  their  importance 
as  a  part  of  poetic  craftsmanship  I  am  writ 
ing  this  introduction.  If  I  must  offer  an 
other  excuse  for  my  temerity  in  setting  down 
melodies  of  my  own  here,  let  me  mention  my 
lifelong  interest  in  rhythm. 

When  I  was  still  a  child  I  enjoyed  melody, 
and  a  sweet-flowing  sequence  of  syllables  in 
verse,  or  a  bit  of  imaginative  phrasing  that 
I  could  understand.  But  rhythm  gave  a 
deeper  delight.  I  shall  never  forget  my  pleas- 


INTRODUCTION 

ure  in  the  folksongs  that  my  father  and 
mother  sang  to  their  children;  nor  the  dance 
music  that  my  mother  played  for  us  in  the 
evening  after  dinner,  improvising  gracefully 
while  she  watched  us  spinning  around  the  big 
living  room  on  tiptoe.  I  liked  a  band,  too, 
partly  because  the  beat  of  the  drum  was  ac 
companied  by  a  melody  that  ran  with  it,  as 
it  seemed  to  me  then,  but  also  ran  away  from 
it.  But  not  all  rhythms  gave  me  pleasure. 
I  was  tormented  by  the  strict  regularity  of 
the  rhythm  of  "The  Lay  of  The  Last  Min 
strel"  when  I  heard  it  for  the  first  time. 

I  was  not  a  musical  child.  I  was  the  least 
musical  member  of  a  large  and  very  musical 
family.  I  rebelled  against  piano  lessons  and 
suffered  when  taken  to  concerts.  I  am  not 
a  musical  person  to-day,  judged  by  the  usual 
standards.  For  this  reason  it  may  seem 
strange  that  when  I  was  still  a  little  girl  I 
began  to  make  lyrics  with  tunes,  to  sing  them 
into  existence  with  queer  little  melodies  that 
grew  as  the  words  grew.  I  would  begin  to 
make  a  poem,  and  when  it  was  finished  I 
would  find  a  tune  with  it,  come,  like  one  of 
the  Good  People,  from  nobody  knows  where. 


INTRODUCTION 

After  those  days  when  poetry  was  a  shy 
happiness,  came  school  days  and  college  days 
when  an  intellectual  interest  in  scansion  came 
near  to  making  me  love  it  for  its  own  sake. 
I  made  innumerable  experiments.  I  treated 
the  sonnet  and  other  verse  forms  with  crude 
unkindness.  I  attempted  to  translate  the 
beloved  hexameters  of  Homer  into  English 
hexameters.  When  I  failed  I  trembled  on 
the  verge  of  the  perilous  thought  that  it  was 
not  altogether  my  own  fault.  The  English 
language  was  quite  unlike  the  Greek  in  qual 
ity.  At  about  the  tune  when  I  made  this 
discovery  I  began  to  lose  faith  in  scansion 
although  I  was  glad  that  I  had  studied  and 
practised  it.  I  came  to  believe  that  "correct 
thought  in  flawless  meter/'  taken  as  an  ideal, 
would  never  produce  poetry.  It  was  quite 
as  likely  to  produce  Brussels  carpet.  And  I 
realized  that  the  Oriental  rug,  with  its  occa 
sional  abrash,  is  a  far  truer,  stronger,  and 
more  beautiful  expression  of  thought  and 
feeling  than  the  impeccable,  machine-made 
carpet  can  possibly  be.  But  through  all  my 
experiments  and  in  spite  of  changing  faiths 
my  method  of  chanting  or  singing  a  lyric 


INTRODUCTION 

into  life  persisted.  And  recently  I  have  be 
gun  to  give  it  much  thought  as  a  part  of 
craftsmanship. 

What  happens  is  simply  this:  while  I  am 
making  a  lyric,  after  the  mood  becomes  clear, 
after  the  idea  and  image  emerge  from  con 
sciousness,  I  sing  it,  and  sometimes  slowly, 
sometinies  quite  rapidly,  the  words  take 
their  places  in  lines  that  carry  a  tune,  also. 
I  am  not  giving  conscious  attention  to  the 
tune.  Nor  am  I  making  an  intellectual 
effort  to  combine  words  and  music  and  get 
a  certain  effect.  I  am  not  thinking  about  the 
music.  I  am  making  a  single-hearted  and 
strong  endeavor  to  say  or  sing  what  is  felt 
and  thought.  Sometimes  a  lyric  and  the 
melody  that  belongs  with  it  grow  in  my  mind 
for  a  long  time  before  they  become  vocal  and 
can  be  set  down  on  paper.  "Bluestone"  was 
in  my  mind  for  nearly  a  year  before  it  was 
finished  with  the  melody  given  here.  Some 
times  it  all  happens  very  quickly.  But  it  is 
always  quite  impossible  to  watch  the  process 
with  detached  interest  while  it  is  going  on. 
It  is  only  by  looking  back  on  it  afterward, 
and  by  studying  the  tunes  in  relation  to  the 

[xvij 


INTRODUCTION 

words,  that  I  make  the  discoveries  which  in 
terest  me  and  lead  me  to  ask  for  a  share  in 
the  knowledge  of  others  who  may  be  working 
in  similar  ways. 

First  of  all  let  me  say  that,  in  my  opinion 
and  for  me,  the  musical  tunes  that  I  make 
are  of  one  sort  with  the  rhythmical  tunes  of 
the  words  as  spoken,  and  with  the  meaning 
that  the  words  are  intended  to  convey.  My 
melodies  even  seem  to  have  an  organic  unity 
with  the  phraseology  and  imagery  of  the 
lines.  That  this  will  not  necessarily  be  true 
for  others  who  may  read  or  sing  my  lyrics 
I  am  ready  to  admit.  But  for  me  it  is  true. 

If  I  take  for  example  "A  Thought  When 
Noon  Is  Hot/'  for  me  both  tune  and  words 
are  exuberant,  sharing  the  quick  joy  that 
comes  to  campers  when,  under  the  sharp 
noonday  sun,  after  a  thirsty  morning  on  the 
road  or  on  the  river,  they  find  a  chilly  spring 
where  water  tastes  sweeter  than  any  that 
can  be  drawn  from  a  faucet. 


INTRODUCTION 


yj'ti          ^  i,  r  j      j  •  r*  *.  K- — ^ 

=*=?=3*=-™  JJ.'4^ 


P-TP- 


_^O 

t:?=:H-X 

-T-5*- 

A  THOUGHT  WHEN  NOON  IS  HOT 

Joy  will  cool  my  face, 

Joy  will  wash  my  hands, 

Into  very  joy  I  shall  plunge  my  arms 

And  sing; 

Joy  will  sweeten  my  mouth, 
Joy  will  gladden  my  throat, 
And  freshen  my  very  life,  when  I  reach 

The  spring. 

Similarly  it  seems  to  me  that  in  "The 
Winds"  the  mood  of  the  tune  varies  from 
the  delicate  joy  of  the  first  stanza  to  the 
sorrow  of  the  second,  then  to  the  pensive 
quality  of  the  first  two  lines  of  the  third 

[xviii] 


INTRODUCTION 


stanza,  and  the  resolution  of  the  last  two 
lines,  just  as  words  and  meaning  vary.  If  I 
were  to  theorize  I  should  say,  also,  that  I 
think  the  fact  that  all  of  these  feelings  are 
symbolized  and  generalized,  not  made  actual 
and  concrete,  is  what  makes  it  possible  to 
touch  them  all  lightly  with  such  a  tune  and 
to  pass  quickly  from  one  to  another. 


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Ixix] 


INTRODUCTION 


THE  WINDS 

The  wind  blew  north,  the  wind  blew  south, 
The  wind  blew  cherries  into  my  mouth, 
The  wind  blew  a  wild  rose  into  my  hair 
And  a  pin  of  gold  to  hold  it  there. 
The  wind  blew  east,  the  wind  blew  west, 
The  wind  blew  a  dagger  against  my  breast, 
And  thorny  boughs  it  blew  in  my  way, 
And  I  was  wounded,  day  after  day. 

Now  all  the  life  of  the  world,  I  find, 
Is  a  whim  of  the  winds,  be  it  cruel  or  kind. 
Oh,  meet  them  singing,  as  they  rush  forth, 
Blowing  east  and  west,  or  south  and  north! 
[n] 


INTRODUCTION 

I  wanted  "Bluestone"  to  be  dignified  and 
resonant,  but  not  too  sombre.  For  me  the 
tune  echoes  and  answers  that  desire. 


BLUESTONE 

Under  the  bluestone  they  quarried  and  cut, 
Under  a  great  block  facing  blue  sky, 
Not  too  far  from  the  home  of  their  pride, 
Six  feet  deep  my  fathers  lie. 

I  have  discovered  that  syllables  are  never 
broken  hi  the  singing  of  my  lyrics.  No  syl 
lable  is  ever  combined  with  several  notes, 
after  the  manner  of  composers.  There  is  al 
ways  a  single  syllable  for  a  single  note,  a 
single  note  for  a  single  syllable.  If  the  num- 


INTRODUCTION 

her  of  syllables  in  corresponding  lines  of  the 
several  stanzas  of  a  lyric  is  not  always  the 
same,  the  number  of  notes  in  the  tune  varies. 
The  value  of  the  note  seems  to  depend  on 
the  quality  of  the  syllable,  on  its  relation  to 
the  rest  of  the  line,  and  on  accent. 

My  melodies  observe  some  law  of  quantity, 
or  enforce  it;  I  am  not  sure  which.  A  plump, 
well-rounded  syllable  is  likely  to  go  with  an 
ample,  long-sounding  note.  Quick,  slight 
syllables  hurry  and  scurry  along  with  notes  of 
smalltime-value.  The  musical  accent  and 
the  stress  of  speech  fall  together.  Something 
of  what  I  mean  by  this  is  suggested  by  the 
first  lines  of  "The  Pageant"  and  the  tune 
that  goes  with  them.  The  two  long-sounding 
syllables,  "long"  and  "road,"  in  the  first 
line,  are  mated  with  musical  notes  relatively 
long.  The  word  "highway,"  on  the  other 
hand,  which  ends  the  balancing  phrase  in  the 
same  line,  is  more  quickly  sung. 


[xxii] 


INTRODUCTION 


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THE  PAGEANT 

Forever  is  a  long  road;  Forever  is  a  highway 
Whereon  go  marching  through  arching  nights 
and  days 

[  xxiii  1 


INTRODUCTION 

Proud  Dreams  with  golden  crowns  fair  upon 

their  foreheads, 
Shining    Dreams    with    haloes    and    bright 

Dreams  with  bays, 
And  all  along  the  flowered  edge  the  little 

Dreams  go  dancing, 
Singing  gay  canticles  of  praise. 

Sometimes,  however,  a  sound  that  could  be 
sung  quickly  is  held  and  lengthened  slightly 
because  it  is  pleasant  to  dwell  on  it.  This  is 
true  in  ''An  Incantation."  The  "0"  with 
which  it  begins  could  have  been  hurried,  but 
not  without  loss  in  sonority.  In  this  chant, 
and  in  all  the  others,  the  rests  have  nearly 
as  much  enotional  value  as  the  notes  and 
words,  I  think.  They  provide  time  for  a 
realization  of  the  pictorial  quality  of  the 
lines.  As  I  visualized  "An  Incantation"  it 
was  chanted  on  a  windy  hillside  in  April 
with  the  sun  coming  and  going  through  cloud- 
rack  and  rain.  But  it  is  attuned  to  the  severe 
moods  rather  than  to  the  daffodil  whimsies 
of  April. 


(xxiv  J 


INTRODUCTION 


AN  INCANTATION 

O  strong  sun  of  heaven,  harm  not  my  love! 
Sear  him  not  with  your  flame,  blind  him  not 

with  your  beauty, 
Shine  for  his  pleasure. 

For  the  sake  of  comparison  I  am  setting 
down  another  chant,  called  "A  Chant  Out 
Of  Doors."  It  was  remembered  rather  than 
imagined,  a  "recollection  in  tranquillity."  It 
seems  to  me  to  be  somewhat  more  complex 
than  "An  Incantation"  because  it  carries 
two  interwoven  moods,  the  mood  of  worship, 
alternating  with  the  mood  of  wonder  that 
leads  to  worship. 


INTRODUCTION 


A  CHANT  OUT  OF  DOORS 

God  of  grave  nights, 
God  of  brave  mornings, 
God  of  silent  noon, 
Hear  my  salutation! 

For  where  the.rapids  rage  white  and  scornful 
I  have  passed  safely,  filled  with  wonder; 
Where  the  sweet  pools  dream  under  willows 
I  have  been  swimming,  filled  with  life, 
[xxvi] 


INTRODUCTION 


Lyrics  written  in  two  stanzas  usually  have 
a  melody  that  varies  from  line  to  line  and 
from  beginning  to  end.  They  seldom  repeat 
the  melody  of  the  first  stanza  in  the  second  as 
hymns  do.  The  melody  changes  as  the  poem 
changes.  This  is  true  in  particular,  of  "  To 
day"  in  "Songs  of  Poverty,"  of  "Weather" 
in  "Preferences"  and  of  the  third  song  in 
the  "Sun  and  Shadow"  series,  which  I  am 
offering  here. 


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INTRODUCTION 


m 


m 


-*      x   — *- 


j^^^^^ 


[xxviii] 


INTRODUCTION 
II 

My  life  is  like  a  shadow,  a  shadow,  a  shadow, 
With  soft  grey  feet  that  patter  down 

A  path  of  waning  light; 
And  where  the  shadow  passes  is  only  rustling 

laughter 

That  rushes  to  the  mighty  dark 
Of  the  low-lying  night. 

And  ail  my  days  go  dreaming,  dreaming, 

dreaming 
Of  the  declining  summer  time 

And  the  descending  sun, 
Beseeching  him  to  waken — 0  fallen  sleeper, 

waken ! 

But  he  goes  silently,  who  knows 
The  laughing  day  is  done. 

The  love  song  called  "Morning  and  Even 
ing"  varies  in  a  somewhat  similar  fashion. 
The  first  stanza  and  the  last  have  the  same 
melody,  but  hi  the  first  it  is  sung  brightly, 
and  in  the  last,  quietly.  The  second  stanza 
varies. 


INTRODUCTION 


MORNING  AND  EVENING 

Sunlight  and  glory! 

Who  is  singing  of  glory  f 

[XXX] 


INTRODUCTION 

I  am  singing  with  heart  as  gay  as  the  honey 
suckle  vine, 

I  am  singing  for  one  whose  words  are  good 
as  ruddy  apples— 

In  the  morning,  in  the  evening,  he  is  mine! 

I  am  singing  for  one  whose  voice  has  music 
of  moving  waters; 

Delicate  ripple  and  terrible  wave  and  thrill 
ing  current  and  tide 

All  have  tones  that  he  uses  well  in  talk  and 
song  and  laughter. 

I  am  singing  for  love  of  a  voice  that  was  the 
joy  of  his  bride. 

Poems  in  free  verse  seem  to  be  quite  as 
likely  to  have  tunes  made  with  them  as  poems 
in  rhymed  stanzas.  But  lyrics  whose  lines 
approximate  the  standard  iambic  pentam 
eter,  either  rhymed  or  blank,  seldom  grow 
with  tunes  of  their  own.  " Berries,"  " Peo 
ple,"  "Music,"  "Birth"  and  others  of  their 
kind  have  no  tunes.  I  should  like  to  know 
what  this  means.  Does  the  familiarity  of 
the  iambic  pentameter  line,  or  its  naturalness 
in  our  language,  make  the  singing  of  it  super- 


INTRODUCTION 

fluous?  Is  the  use  of  a  melody,  then,  a  means 
of  learning  how  to  combine  many  kinds  of 
metrical  feet  in  many  ways  to  express  a 
special  emotion,  without  being  mechanical 
about  it?  Or  is  it  simply  the  old  method 
of  the  folksong,  with  this  difference,  that  I 
probably  give  much  more  attention  to  phrase 
ology,  imagery  and  symbolism  and  less  atten 
tion  to  the  music  than  the  folk  gave  who 
made  our  folksongs? 

In  support  of  this  latter  idea  is  the  fact 
that  many  of  my  favorite  themes  might  be 
called  themes  of  the  folk.  I  write  most  hap 
pily  of  things  that  even  simple  people  know 
well,  of  homes  and  camps,  of  physical  and 
mental  hardship  and  prowess,  of  adventures 
in  the  open,  of  birth  and  growth  and  struggle 
and  of  our  vision  of  Forever.  "Bluestone" 
has  been  called  a  "class-conscious"  poem. 
It  is  never  that  for  me.  It  is  simply  folk- 
conscious.  And  I  must  admit  that  when  I 
use  these  themes  of  the  folk  I  most  frequently 
sing  my  lyrics. 

In  conclusion  let  me  say  that  I  know  very 
well  that  I  am  not  a  musician,  a  composer. 
I  know  very  little  about  music.  And  I  am 

[xxxii] 


INTRODUCTION 

most  grateful  to  my  mother  and  to  Miss 
Anita  Darling  for  their  assistance  in  taking 
down  in  musical  notation  the  melodies  given 
here. 


xxriii  ] 


BLUESTONE 


BLUESTONE 

Under    the    bluestone   they    quarried    and 

cut, 

Under  a  great  block  facing  blue  sky, 
Not  too  far  from  the  home  of  their  pride, 
Six  feet  deep  my  fathers  lie. 
Their  great  arms  are  folded  on  each  broad 

breast, 
Their  strong  voices  quiet,  for  their  lips  are 

dust; 

And  none,  forever,  shall  break  their  rest- 
But  theirs  are  the  words  and  the  deeds  that  I 

trust. 
They  rise  from  the  dead,  though  their  bodies 

are  shut 
Under  the  bluestone  they  quarried  and  cut. 

They  were  a  good  race;  theirs  was  the  power 
Of   good   height   and   girth,   firm-knit   and 

clean; 
Great  skulls  they  had,  and  broad,  square 

brows, 

ID 


BLUESTONE 

Eyes  like  the  bluestone  with  arched  nose 

between; 
Their  minds  were  rugged  as  their  hands  were 

strong; 
They  loved  good  food  and  they  loved  good 

song; 
They  built  big  homes  and  they  planted  much 

grain, 

Laughing  deep  laughter  hi  sun  and  rain; 
Many  sons  and  daughters  they  got  in  their 

pride; 

Heartily  they  lived  and  hardly  they  died— 
They  died,  but  they  live,  for  they  speak  to  me 
Suddenly,  sharply,  mysteriously. 

When    I    was   a    child,    they    set    me   my 
task— 

"Bid  your  mind  get  all  that  your  mind  can 

ask!" 

When  I  was  a  girl,  the  word  of  my  sires 
Was,  "Bid  your  heart  give  all  that  your 

heart  desires! 
For  a  woman,  one  lover,"  they  said,  "one 

mate! 
Choose  you  one  of  our  kind,  and  let  your 

love  be  great; 

[21 


BLUESTONE 

Then  build  walls  about  your  life,  like  the 

bluestone  strong, 
For  the  daughters  of  our  race  love  deeply 

and  long!" 

When  I  was  a  woman,  the  wife  of  a  man, 
Like  hammers  in  quarries  their  voices  rang 

clear, 
"We   are   the   source   where  your   being 

began— 
You   are    a   mother    of    to-morrow,    my 

dear. 
You  shall   thrust  our  strength  and  our 

beauty  and  pride 

Out  into  life  again,  ere  you  have  died; 
You  shall  be  our  hands  to  reach  endless 

years  away  .  .  . 
You  shall  be  our  voice  speaking  out  of 

to-day." 
These  things  they  said,  though  their  bodies 

were  shut 
Under  the  bluestone  they  quarried  and  cut. 

Sometimes  when  morning  finds  me  slow  to 

rise, 

Wistful  in  the  sun,  dull  before  the  skies, 
[3] 


BLUESTONE 

I  feel  on  my  shoulder  a  pressure  like  Fate, 
The  touch  of  a  race  that  stood  tall  and 

straight, 
That  stood  straight  till  age  had  broken  body 

and  will 
That  nothing  else  could  break.  .   .  I  am  one 

of  them  still.  .   . 
'  The  bluestone  is  broken,  but  never  bent/' 

they  said. 
These  are  still  the  words  of  my  ever-living 

dead. 

Sometimes  at  noon,  when  I  would  do  no  more, 
When  I  am  weary,  when  all  my  joy  is  spent, 
When  I  am  weak  before  life,   ready  to  im 
plore, 
Though  I  should  command — then,  with  wise 

intent, 
"Time,  not  trouble,  crumbles  bluestone/' 

they  say, 
"Be  like  the  bluestone  for  another  day/' 

Sometimes  in  the  evening,  when  my  work  is 

done, 
When  my  man  comes  home  to  me  with  the 

setting  sun, 

[4] 


BLUESTONE 

I  think  that  my  fathers  are  met  with  us  too, 
That  they  rest  in  our  chairs,  that  they  feast 

as  we  do. 
For  "The  bluestone  is  blessed,"  they  said, 

"when  Fate 

Lets  it  pave  a  quiet  walk  to  the  dear  home 
gate." 

But  oftenest,  at  night,  when  I  can  not  sleep, 
When  thoughts  that  rest  by  day  wake  their 

watch  to  keep, 
When  my  hands  are  strangely  still,  when 

winds  drone  endlessly, 

My  ever-living  dead  come  back  to  speak  to  me. 
I  do  not  see  them  white-clad  in  garments  of 

the  tomb. 

I  am  not  afraid  when  they  fill  my  quiet  room. 
They  murmur  in  my  pulse;  they  throng  my 

wondering  brain; 
They   give   me   their   urisdom,    their   dreams, 

though  they  remain 
With  their  great  arms  folded,  their  fine  eyes 

shut, 

Under  the  bluestone  they  quarried  and  cut, 
Though  under  a  great  block  facing  blue  sky, 
Six  feet  deep  my  fathers  lie. 
15] 


SONGS   FROM   BESIDE  SWIFT 
RIVERS 


A  CHANT  OUT  OF  DOORS 

God  of  grave  nights, 
God  of  brave  mornings, 
God  of  silent  noon, 
Hear  my  salutation! 

For  where  the  rapids  rage  white  and 
scornful, 

I  have  passed  safely,  filled  with  wonder; 

Where  the  sweet  pools  dream  under  wil 
lows, 

I  have  been  swimming,  filled  with  life. 

God  of  round  hills, 
God  of  green  valleys, 
God  of  clear  springs, 
Hear  my  salutation! 

For  where  the  moose  feeds,  I  have  eaten 

berries, 
Where  the  moose  drinks,  I  have  drunk 

deep. 


19] 


BLUESTONE 

When  the  storms  crashed  through  broken 

heavens — 
And  under  clear  skies — I  have  known  joy. 

God  of  great  trees, 
God  of  wild  grasses, 
God  of  little  flowers, 
Hear  my  salutation! 

For  where  the  deer  crops  and  the  beaver 

plunges, 

Near  the  river  I  have  pitched  my  tent; 
Where  the  pines  cast  aromatic  needles 
On  a  still  floor,  I  have  known  peace. 

God  of  grave  nights, 
God  of  brave  mornings, 
God  of  silent  noon, 
Hear  my  salutation! 


HO] 


I  CAME  TO  BE  ALONE 

I  went  out  from  the  world  of  futile  talking 

and  trying, 
Out  from  the  world  of  the  quarrels  of  men  to 

the  nude  and  silent  sky; 
And  into  the  woods  I  came,  to  the  easily 

flowing  river, 
Here  of  my  own  nude  soul  to  ask,  "What 

manner  of  man  am  I?" 

But  I  have  strangely  forgotten  all  that  I 

dreamed  and  wanted, 
All  that  I  thought  and  hoped  and  dared 

only  a  month  ago; 
Even  the  friends  of  my  heart  I  have  lost  in 

the  slipping  shadows, 
And  the  slim,  young  self  I  see  in  the  stream 

is  the  only  self  I  know. 

I  shall  remember  again,  perhaps,  when  the 

blessed  summer  passes, 
But  now,  oh,  nothing  but  storm  or  peace 

under  a  bending  sky, 
HU 


BLUESTONE 

Racket  of  winds  at  night  that  slap  and  tug 

at  the  flapping  canvas, 
And  the  rock  of  a  good  canoe  by  day  on  the 

rapids  racing  by. 

I  shall  remember  again,  perhaps,  but  now  I 

have  clean  forgotten, 
For  I  have  been  glad  of  hunger  and  thirst, 

and  the  fear  of  death  I  have  known; 
Jagged  rocks  in  the  rip  I  have  seen  and  the 

quiet  waters  beyond  them, 
And  the  clean,  green  banks  of  perfect  rest, 

since  I  came  to  be  alone! 


1121 


THE  AIR 

The  air  shone  with   light  and  rang  with 

music 

And  carried  memories  of  flowers  to  me, 
Where   I   lay,   resting   a   weary   head   and 

shoulders 
Hard  against  the  sod,  under  a  tree. 

The  air  moved  gently,  joyfully,  over,  under, 
With  delicate  singing  soothing  my  unrest, 
While  I  lay  there,  too  weary  even  to  mur 
mur, 
Too  spent  to  answer  life,  even  with  a  jest. 

The  air   was   lovely.     There   I   slept   and 

wakened, 

And  still  there  was  the  miracle  of  the  air; 
Rested,  I  flung  my  arms  apart  in  worship 
To  think  of  this  glory  moving  everywhere. 


[13 


GHOSTS 

You  say  you  saw  a  ghost,  in  the  house,  at 
night, 

Standing  stiff  and  chilly  in  evanescent  sil 
ver, 

In  your  room,  near  the  bed  where  your 
grandfather  died. 

But  I  saw  ghosts,  hundreds  of  them,  danc 
ing, 

Out  of  doors,  by  day,  in  a  dazzle  of  sunlight, 

Climbing  through  the  air  of  a  clearing  near 
the  river, 

Flying  dizzily  there  in  a  brief  puff  of  the 
breeze, 

Yes,  hundreds  of  ghosts,  where  a  little  while 
ago 

Died  hundreds  of  the  purple  blooms  of  the 
thistle. 


H4] 


SONG  OF  TWO  WANDERERS 

DEAR,  when  I  went  with  you 
To  where  the  town  ends, 

Simple  things  that  Christ  loved, 
They  were  our  friends. 

Tree-shade  and  grass-blade 

And  meadows  in  flower, 
Sun-sparkle,  dew-glisten, 

Star-glow  and  shower, 
Cool-flowing  song  at  night 

Where  the  river  bends 
And  the  shingle  croons  a  tune — 

These  were  our  friends! 

Under  us  the  brown  earth, 

Ancient  and  strong, 
The  best  bed  for  wanderers 

All  the  night  long! 
Over  us  the  blue  sky, 

Ancient  and  dear, 
The  best  roof  to  shelter  all 

Glad  wanderers  here! 

[15] 


BLUESTONE 

And  racing  between  them  there 

Falls  and  ascends 
The  chantey  of  the  clean  winds — 

These  were  our  friends! 

By  day  on  the  broad  road 

Or  on  the  narrow  trail, 
Angel  wings  shadowed  us, 

Glimmering  pale 
Through  the  red  heat  of  noon; 

In  the  twilight  of  dawn 
Fames  broke  fast  with  us, 

Prophets  led  us  on! 
Heroes  were  kind  to  us 

Day  after  happy  day; 
Many  white  Madonnas 

We  met  on  our  way- 
Farmer  and  longshoreman, 

Fisherman  and  wife, 
Children  and  laborers 

Brave  enough  for  life — 
Simple  folk  that  Christ  loved, 

They  were  our  friends- 
Dear,  we  must  go  again 

To  where  the  town  ends! 

[16] 


BEFORE  DAWN  IN  THE  WOODS 

Upon  our  eyelids,  dear,  the  dew  will  lie, 
And  on  the  roughened  meshes  of  our  hair, 

While  little  feet  make  bold  to  scurry  by 
And  half-notes  shrilly  cut  the  quickened 
air. 

Our  clean,  hard  bodies  on  the  clean,  hard 

ground, 
Will  vaguely  feel  that  they  are  full  of 

power, 

And    they   will    stir   and    wake    and    look 
around, 
Loving  the  early,  chill,  half-lighted  hour, 

Loving  the  voices  in  the  shadowed  trees, 
Loving  the  feet  that  move  the  blossoming 

grass,— 
Oh,  always  we  have  known  such  things  as 

these, 

And  knowing,  can  we  love  and  let  them 
pass? 


17] 


WHITE  MAGIC 

Who  bids  us  be  wary 
Of  briar  and  snake 
Is  led  by  a  fairy; 

Who  finds  dry  wood 

For  the  fires  we  make — 
His  magic  is  good; 

Who  gathers  wild  berries 

High  on  far  hills, 
Or  gets  sand-cherries, 

Who  catches  the  trout 

Where  the  deep  hole  fills, 
Is  a  mage  no  doubt. 

Who  knows  the  cool  hollow 
Where  springs  drip  cold, 
Is  a  wizard  to  follow. 

Let  the  magic  begin 

With  the  dawn's  red-gold 
But  the  cook  is  the  Jinn! 

[18] 


BY  A  SALMON  RIVER 

From  the  bank  you  can  see  nothing  but 

swift  water 
Mottled  with  shadows  and  circling  golden 

lights. 

But  climb  into  a  tree  and  then  look  down — 
You  will  see  them  etched  in  grey  against  the 

bottom, 
Grand,  tapering,  silver  salmon  in  delicate 

poise, 
Headed   up-stream    to    taste    the   sweetest 

springs. 

//  you  would  see  deep  you  must  climb  up  high 
And  look  dear  through. 


H91 


THIS  SHALL  BE   THE  BOND 

This  shall  be  the  bond  between  us,  mate  of 

my  heart- 
Stir  of  willow  branches  where  the  saplings 

start 
Out   of   sedgy   meadows   by    the   downhill 

stream 
Where  the  air  lies  soft  in  dream. 

This  shall  be  the  bond  between  us — winding 

in  the  sun, 
In  and  out  from  yesterday,  till  all  our  days 

are  done— 
The  free,  onward  flowing  of  the  full-hearted 

river 
Past  reeds  that  rustle  and  quiver. 

Ache  of  throbbing  heavens  torn  by  burst 
ing  storm, 

Tang  of  bitter  wood-smoke  where  our  food 
waits  warm, 

And  the  dear,  broken  music  of  the  hard- 
driven  rain, 
And  the  cold,  and  thirst,  and  pain— 

[20] 


THIS  SHALL  BE  THE  BOND 

These  shall  be  a  bond  between  us  unto  the 

end, 
The   unknown   venture   where   the  singing 

rapids  bend 

To  the  clean,  white  danger  of  the  foaming  rip 
Where  our  boat  must  dance  and  dip. 

Ringing  of  the  pebbles  where  the  riffles  are 

shallow, 
Pleasant  quip  of  quail  in  the  fields  long 

fallow, 
And  the  dawn's  quaint  chorus  out  of  old 

delight, 
And  the  sweet-scented  peace  of  night; 

Blowing  of  the  merry  buds,  rosy,  blue  and 
yellow, 

Flushing  of  the  wild  fruits  until  they   are 
mellow, 

Strawberries,  raspberries,  and  saucy  winter- 
green, 
All  rich  things  heard  and  seen : 

All  will  be  a  bond  between  us,  till  we  are 

too  old 
For  the  high-hearted  going,  till  the  tales  we 

have  told 

121J 


BLUESTONE 

Of  the  long  rivers  winding  from  the  hills  to 
the  sea 

Are  but  mirth  and  a  memory. 

For  the  love  of  all  wild  things  is  warm  upon 
our  lips, 

And  the  old  earth  is  answered  in  our  meet 
ing  finger-tips: 

We  are  growing  full-hearted  as  the  rivers 

grow  great— 
This  shall  be  the  bond,  my  mate! 


[22] 


AN  OATH  IN  APRIL 

I  swear  by  cool  white  blood-root  blossom, 
By  the  new  grass,  by  the  new  day, 
By  the  fine,  crisp  lights  on  ice-fed  waters 
Where  trout  and  water-beetles  play, 
I  swear  by  the  scent  of  the  wet  brown  earth 
And  by  dreams  of  new  moss  silently  creep 
ing, 

By  the  hurrying  life  that  would  find  birth 
In  the  woods,  roused  from  their  heavy  sleep 
ing, 

That  I  will  be  the  wild  Earth's  friend 
Till  the  time  has  come  to  rest  again, 
In  her  rich  renewal,  world  without  end, 
Yes,  world  without  end.    Amen! 


1231 


SUNSET 

The  little,  yellow,  fluttering  rays  of  light 

Are  running  home  to  rest, 
Where  the  sun  broods  like  a  great  mother 
bird,  . 

Red  in  the  low,  red  West. 

Broad  bands  of  rose  and  gold  flare  up  and 

out 

Across  a  cloud-filled  sky, 
And  stretch  with  feathery  edge  against  the 

grey, 
Like  great  wings  lifted  high. 

And  then  are  folded  close  the  little  lights, 
Then  fall  the  wide,  bright  wings 

On  a  grey  nest  of  clouds,  where  shadows 

hide 
Their  mystic  flutterings. 


[24] 


NEAR  THE  RIVERS 

Inland  a  little  way  are  men  and  women, 

Tall  firs  upon  the  hillside, 

Rich  wheat  in  golden  fields; 

But  beside  the  banks  of  little  rivers 

Are  children,  and  lilies. 


[25] 


SILVER  WATERS 

Run,  run,  silver  waters, 
Underneath  the  sycamores; 

Ah,  what  rush  of  fluent  music 

Through  the  ample  shadow  pours! 

Leap,  dance,  silver  waters, 
Over  boulders  brown  and  cool; 

Slip  around  the  pebbly  corner 
Quickly  to  the  swimming  pool! 

Run,  run,  silver  waters, 
Till  the  open  pool  is  won, 

Where  our  little  laughing  brothers 
Plunge  and  paddle  in  the  sun! 


126] 


"THE  REALLY  TRULY  TWIRLY 
WHIRLY  EEL" 

This  being  no  serious  poem  for  scholars,   but  a 
jingle  for  all  small  boys. 

The  trout  won't  bite? 
Well,  never  mind, 
The  eels  will— 
They  always  do! 
The  river  is  full 
Quite  full  of  eels 
That  twist  and  twirl 
About  the  piers. 
Just  build  a  fire 
Here  on  the  shore — 
They  like  the  light- 
Then  bait  your  line 
With  cut-up-sucker, 
Or  any  old  fish, 
And  wait  and  see  .  .  . 

Uncle  Eel  will  see  the  light — 

Hey,  wriggly,  twisty,  oh! 
He  will  smell  the  bait  and  bite — 

The  twirly,  whirly  sport! 

127] 


BLUESTONE 

He  will  wriggle  and  twist  like  sin, 
Spatter  and  splash  when  you  pull  him  in, 
Knot  your  line  and  writhe  in  his  skin, 
Wriggly,  twisty,  oh! 

Now  you're  sorry  for  Uncle  Eel? 

Hey,  wriggly,  twisty,  oh! 
Well,  I  know  just  how  you  feel 

For  the  twirly,  whirly  sport, 
For  he  wriggles  his  best,  when  all  is  said, 
He  never  stops  when  he  loses  his  head, 
He  keeps  it  up  when  you  know  he  is  dead, 

Wriggly,  twisty,  oh! 


128] 


BAREFOOT 

For  all  little  girls. 

Oh,  the  fine  dust  is  soft  as  down  for  my  feet, 

And  they  feel  how  the  warmth  of  the  sum 
mer  is  sweet 

On  the  broad  yellow  road,  as  they  travel 
down 

The  big,  high  hill  to  the  little,  low  town. 

But  still  they  are  dreaming  of  ways  they 

know 
Through  sluggish  marshes  where  rushes 

grow; 
Of  ways  that  are  chilly  and  moist  with 

slime, 
Where  hard  is  the  crossing  or  heavy  the 

climb. 

And  my  feet  remember  the  ways  kept  cool 
By  the  living  spring  and  the  waiting  pool, 
Where  weary  they  rested — a  night — a  day- 
While  the  frisky  pollywogs  wriggled  at  play. 

129] 


BLUESTONE 

And  my  feet  remember  the  stern,  hard  rock 
Of  the  hilly  upland,  the  sudden  shock 
Of  its  cold  edge  at  night,  and  the  burning  pain 
Of  its  blistering  heat  when  the  day  came 
again. 

Oh,     more     they    remember — a     thousand 

things- 
Fine  feathers  fallen  from  little  gay  wings, 
And  the  moss  by  the  dew  kept  soft  and 

clean, 
And  the  brush  of  the  ferns,  and  the  dark 

earth  between; 

Prick  of  the  thistle  and  thrust  of  the  thorn 
Of  the  wild  briar  bushes,  where  quick  they 

were  torn, 
And  the  shifting  of  pine  needles  under  their 

toes, 
And  the  bruises  of  pebbles  where  the  wild 

brook  flows. 

For  they  have  been  wounded  with  porcu 
pine  quills, 

And  they  have  been  washed  where  the 
spring  freshet  spills 

[30] 


BAREFOOT 

Her  flood  of  rough  laughter,  and  they  have 

been  gay 
Like  the  feet  of  the  fawn,  or  the  squirrel, 

all  day. 

Oh,  the  fine  dust  is  soft  on  the  broad  road 

down 
From  the  big,  high  hill  to  the  little,  low 

town— 

But  my  feet  still  remember,  and  long  to  go 
Up  again,  back,  to  the  things  they  know. 


[31] 


BERRIES 

Which   are  the  sweetest,   raciest  wild  ber 
ries 

That  grow  in  all  the  world?    Where  can  you 
find  them? 

Do  you  think  the  mellow  crimson  straw 
berries 

Dented  with    gold    like    shining   drops    of 
fire. 

Unquenched  in  the  dewy  meadows  of  New 
Brunswick 

Are  best  of  all? 

Or  do  you  like  raspberries 

Like  carmine  embers  where  thorny  bushes 
grow 

On  the  cleared  hill  above  the  beaver  dam, 

Or    blueberries    in    a    high    New    England 
fallow, 

Smoky  upon  the  scrub  and  warm  to  touch? 

Or  would  you  have  the  evergreen  black 
berries 
Like  little  clustered  spheres  of  jet,  on  vines 

[32] 


BERRIES 

Whose  roots  sink  deep  into  moist  Oregon 

soil 
To  gather  sugary  wine? 

If  you  could  choose, 
Which  would  you  go  the  longest  way  to 

gather? 
Sometimes  I  think — but  I  can  never  decide! 


[33] 


A  THOUGHT  WHEN  NOON  IS  HOT 

Joy  will  cool  my  face, 

Joy  will  wash  my  hands, 

Into  very  joy  I  shall  plunge  my  arms 

And  sing; 

Joy  will  sweeten  my  mouth, 
Joy  will  gladden  my  throat, 
And  freshen  my  very  life,  when  I  reach 

The  spring. 


[34] 


GREEN  VALLEYS 

To  you,  green  valleys, 

I  am  going  home— 

You  have  given  me  a  home 

Whose  walls  are  bright  air, 

Whose  floor  is  the  grass, 

Whose  roof  is  white  light 

Where  the  blue  eaves  of  heaven  hang  bare. 

Dear  green  valleys, 
I  shall  go,  for  you  have  called 
With  your  three  ancient  voices 
That  speak  ten  thousand  strong; 
The  voice  of  mating  birds, 
The  voice  of  moving  waters, 
And  the  wind's  inconstant  song. 
You  can  not  know  my  need 
Of  the  home  you  have  given, 
At  whose  doors  my  spirit 
Never  knocks  in  vain— 
Oh,  give  me  even  the  thorns 
And  the  thistles  of  your  paths 
For  my  wise  bare  feet, 

135] 


BLUESTONE 

And  your  cold  and  heat  and  pain — 
Oh,  share  your  simple  strength 
Of  frost  and  fire  and  foam — 
Dear  green  valleys, 
When  I  go  home. 

Give  me  your  streams 

That  I  may  breast  the  rapids, 

Fighting  bravely  up 

With  the  old,  slow  strain; 

Give  me  your  hills, 

The  wardens  of  your  beauty, 

And  your  strong-guarding  rocks 

That  I  may  climb  again; 

Give  me  your  storms— 

I  would  be  buffeted  and  shaken 

That  once  more  I  may  know 

The  peace  that  conquers  fear, 

And  the  long,  grateful  rest, 

And  the  silent  hosannah 

That  the  hard-willed  struggle  brings  near. 

But  fill  the  wide  rooms 
Of  my  home  with  fragrance — 
Down  the  unending  corridors 
Blow  the  scent  of  noon; 

[36] 


GREEN  VALLEYS 

Up  the  star-reaching  stairs 

Whirl  the  scent  of  midnight; 

Dear  green  valleys, 

I  shall  go  soon. 

And  always  I  shall  go, 

Always  when  you  call  me 

To  the  hearth  unbounded 

And  the  rooms  with  fragrance  filled, 

Till  a  quiet  time  comes 

When  my  will  has  forsaken 

All  the  dear  deeds  that  I  have  willed. 

Then,  when  I  shall  need 
Airy  ways  no  longer, 
When  my  feet  can  feel 
No  thistle  in  the  grass, 
Still  let  your  ancient  voices, 
No  weaker  and  no  stronger, 
Chant  above  my  rest, 
Singing  as  they  pass, 
For  I  shall  be  one,  then, 
With  frost  and  fire  and  foam. 

Dear  green  valleys, 
I  shall  be  at  home. 

[37J 


SONGS  OF  POVERTY 


DEBT 

Everywhere  I  go,  in  country  or  in  town, 
Great  clouds  above  me  are   weighing  me 

down; 
The  rain  drops  too  heavily;  too  hard  shines 

the  sun; 
All  the  winds  are  sinister;  the  days  one  by 

one, 

Glide  into  long  nights  when  I  cannot  rest; 
There  is  no  more  pleasure  in  the  food  on 

my  plate; 
Stronger   elbows   jostle   mine;   meaner   lips 

jest; 

And  for  all  I  want  of  life  I  can  only  wait. 
Deeper  drives  the  bitterness,  deeper  every 

day— 
I,  who  would  be  giving,  can  not  even  pay. 


(411 


TO-DAY 

I  will  walk  as  far  as  my  strength  will  take 

me, 

Though  I  had  nothing  for  breakfast  to-day; 
I  will  go  out  where  the  eyes  of  strangers 
Ask  me  questions  when  they  look  my  way; 

But  I  will  not  bend  my  neck  to  the  pity  of 

fools, 
I  will  not  turn  my  face  when  Arrogance 

calls, 

Though  I  die  of  heat,  though  I  die  of  hunger, 
Falling  by  the  road  as  an  old  horse  falls. 


[42] 


TIRED 

Going  on  is  a  long,  long  walk; 
Hills — stones — heat — dust — 
My  bundles  pull  hard  upon  my  arm; 
How  can  I  go  on?    But  I  must. 

My  feet  are  heavy  on  the  road ; 

Up — down — up — down — 

They  move  like  a  worn-out  machine 

About  to  stop.    But  I  must  get  to  town. 

My  shoulders  are  sagging;    I  am  weak, 
Faint — sore — dull — slow- 
It's  a  long,  long  walk  to  just  around  the 

bend 
When  you  are  too  tired  to  go. 


143] 


PAWNBROKER 

Pawnbroker,    pawnbroker,    what    will    you 

lend  me 
On   my   grandmother's   locket   with    the 

old  gold  chain? 
(I  wore  it  one  night  when  my  dear  leaned 

to  kiss  me — 

We  were  walking  home  in  the  cool  grey 
rain.) 

Pawnbroker,  what  will  you  lend  me  on  my 

coat? 
It's  fine  cloth.     (The  weather  is  warmer 

to-day. 
It  was  cold  when  he  gave  me  that  coat  on 

my  birthday, 
Reckless  because  they  had  raised  his  pay.) 

Sign  of  the  three  golden  balls,  I  am  going; 
For  now  I  have  nothing.    As  others  have 

died, 
Even  so  I  can.    I'll  not  be  returning; 

For  pawnbroker,  what  would  you  lend  on 
my  pride? 

[44] 


PASSING  A  FRIEND 

I  thought  I  saw  a  friend  to-day— 

The  look  of  him  was  dear — 
But  I  shrank  and  turned  my  face  away, 

Hurt  by  a  sudden  fear 
That  he  might  turn  and  chance  to  see, 

As  I  went  down  the  street, 
The  sloven  boots  with  crooked  heels 

That  shame  my  sorry  feet. 


M5] 


WORK 

Against  my  need  of  shelter  and  food 
I  set  my  struggling  flesh  and  blood 
And  mind  and  heart,  to  make  life  give 
What  I  must  have  if  I  would  live. 

I  do  not  know  from  day  to  day 
Which  side  will  win  the  next  grim  play, 
What  marginal  bit  of  praise  or  blame 
Will  let  me  have — or  lose — the  game. 

You  say  the  stakes  are  small,  that  I 
Am  but  one  mortal,  if  I  die, 
And  that  the  odds  are  heavy.    Still 
Against  my  need  I  set  my  will. 


146] 


POVERTY 

This,  then,  is  what  the  great  have  known— 

The  reaching  for  a  crust, 
The  taking  of  the  cast-off  cloak, 

The  breathing  of  the  dust; 
This  is  the  thing  that  saints  have  praised 

And  prophets  have  endured, 
And  this  is  what  the  Lord  Christ  blessed, 

Since  it  could  not  be  cured. 

Ah,  well,  I  am  not  saint  enough 

To  bless  an  ugly  need. 
Nor  can  I  share  the  glowing  peace 

Of  those  of  holy  breed. 
But  now  that  I  have  known  this  thing, 

I  may  have  grace  to  find 
That  common  good  the  great  have  found,— 

The  courage  of  mankind. 


(471 


PREFERENCES 


PEOPLE 
To  E.  E.  K.  and  E.  K.  S. 

Sometimes,  when  I  am  happy  and  at  rest, 
I  think,  of  all  things,  I  like  people  best. 
Even  the  shallow,  round-eyed  gossips  give 
A  little  zest  to  life.    So  let  them  live! 
Just  to  be  near  my  kind  and  hear  them  talk 
ing 

Seems  very  good  to  me.     Oh,  dearer  far 
The  racket  on  the  streets  where  men  are 

walking 
Than  all  the  prairie's  quiet  spaces  are. 

But  when  I  think  more  keenly,  I  confess, 
There  are  a  few  that  I  like  somewhat  less 
Than  others;  those  who  smugly  speak  to  me 
With  minds  elusive  as  crabs  upon  the  rocks; 
Who  reach  limp  fingers  out  too  languidly 
When  they  shake  hands;  whose  kindness  only 

mocks. 
I  hope  that  they  may  prosper  in  some  good 

way 
And  find  them  friends  according  to  their 

needs, 

[511 


BLUESTONE 
Die,  without  doing  much  harm,  some  quiet 


And    reach    the    heavens    of    their    several 
creeds. 

But  I  like  people  who  can  make  things  grow, 
Whose  hands  are  wise  to  move  the  quick 

ened  earth 

In  Spring,  so  that  the  new  vine-tendrils  know 
An  easier  grace  and  a  more  confident  mirth. 
I  like  the  makers  of  a  thousand  things, 
Of  music,  magic  of  words,  or  mighty  wings 
That   cut   the   winds   as   they   go   droning 

through 

The  wondering  deeps  of  the  defiant  blue. 
And  always  I  can  find  out  much  of  good 
In  people  who  know  how  to  handle  food; 
I  think  there  is  some  merit  of  heart  or  head 
In  any  person  who  can  make  good  bread, 
And  make  it  lovingly,  and  put  away 
The  golden-crusted  loaves,  as  if  to  say, 
"It  is  no  small  matter  to  remake  mankind 
Daily  with  flour,  the  body  and  the  mind." 
I   like   firm   health   that   never   comes   by 

chance, 

And  a  quick  handshake,  and  a  greeting  meant, 
152] 


PEOPLE 

A  sudden  glint  of  hardness  in  the  glance, 
Ami  slow  thought  s]>oken  out  ol  strong  con 
tent. 

I  like  an  athlete  as  I  like  a  tree, 
And  both  are  very  beautiful  to  me. 
I  like  men  with  the  manners  of  great  kings 
In  all  the  little  worlds  of  common  things- 
Shrewd,  humorous  men,  still  quick  to  kind 
liness, 

With  dreams  they  laugh  at  rather  than  ex 
press; 

And  busy  women,  ample  and  motherly, 
Guarding  the  little  children  they  have  borne, 
Making  their  homes  houses  of  refuge,  free 
To  all  who  are  unmothered  and  forlorn. 
Mellow  old  veterans  to  whom  the  years 
Have  given  wisdom,  and  young  pioneers 
Who  lay  rough  hands  upon  a  living  truth 
And  hold  it  with  the  passion  of  their  youth, 
And  those  who  can  be  gay  through  middle- 
age, 

And  every  questioner,  and  every  sage- 
All  these  have  my  respect;  whole-heartedly 
I  would  give  thanks  for  all  their  gifts  to  me. 
Since  I  have  been  poor  and  sick  my  words 
would  bless 

1631 


BLUESTONE 

The  sick  and  poor  with  every  gentleness, 
And  since  I  have  known  sadness  very  well, 
I  care  for  the  sorrowful  more  than  I  can  tell. 
And  I  revere  the  flower-like,  serene 
Spirits  that  bloom  on  hills  where  air  is  pure, 
Lonely  and  rare,  with  a  long  climb  between 
Their  world  and  the  lower  world   that  I 
endure. 

But  dearest  are  the  homes  where  children 

Play, 

Where  men  smoke  quietly  to  end  the  day, 
Where  women  sew,  and  sing,  and  dream, 

and  brood, 

Declaring,  without  speech,  that  life  is  good, 
Where  with  some  homely  ritual  of  delight 
The  year's  high  festivals  are  made  more 

bright. 

Oh,  when  in  such  a  simple  home  I  rest, 
I  think  that  I  like  simple  people  best. 


WEATHER 

Give  me  a  land  where  the  fog  comes  mani 
fold  and  grey 
From  over  the  black  wash  of  the  waves  and 

the  sheer  white  spray; 
For  in  a  land  where  the  fog  lies  my  mother 

bore  her  child- 
Out  of  the  blown  wet  veil  of  the  fog  first  I 
wept  and  smiled. 

Give  me  a  land  where  the  fog  comes,  for 

when  I  burn  with  pain, 
As  to  a  mother  I  would  go  home  into  the 

fog  again; 
I  would  leave  the  garish  fire  of  the  sun  and 

go  where  skies  are  blind, 
For  cool  to  cover  me  is  the  fog,  cool  and 

very  kind, 
Large  as  her  love  to  hold  and  enfold  me, 

quiet  as  death — or  sleep- 
It  may  be  that  where  the  fog  lies  I  can 

smile  again — or  weep. 


[66] 


MUSIC 

To  my  mother. 

Oh,  I  have  loved  great  rolling  hills  of  sound, 
A  mountainous  music,  rising  in  slow  curves 
Of  deep-toned  and  firm-moving  melody 
In  a  crescendo  like  a  rounding  peak 
Near  to  the  burning  stars! 


[66] 


FOOD 

The  active  body  will  be  fed- 
Give  me  this  day  my  daily  bread ! 

But,  that  my  body  may  be  strong, 
Brave  and  ruddy  and  fit  for  song, 

And  that  my  spirit  may  bide  in  peace 
Nor  ask  too  soon  for  her  release, 

I'd  have  my  food  be  fair  and  sound, 

The  good,  glad  fruit  of  the  healthy  ground. 

Best  I  like  figs  in  a  deep,  blue  bowl, 
Piled  high,  with  cream  to  cover  the  whole, 

Thick  yellow  cream  on  ripe  figs  chilled— 
The  pitcher  empty  when  the  bowl  is  filled. 

Then,  if  any  virtue  be  in  food, 

Surely  such  blessedness  will  make  life  good! 


157] 


COLORS 

Violet  and  amber,  these  are  my  colors; 

Amethyst  and  topaz,  these  are  my  desire! 
I    would    wear    gowns    like    darling    dusky 

shadows- 
Gowns  that  are  glowing  like  candle-light  or 

fire— 
I  would  look  long  on  tumbled  storm-clouds  of 

summer— 
A  sharp-darting  lightning  my  spirit  would 

be. 

Violet  and  amber,  these  are  my  colors; 
Amethyst  and  topaz  are  dearest  to  me! 


[68] 


TREES 

The  apple  tree  is  a  dear  tree 

And  easy  to  climb; 
The  elm  gives  a  pleasant  shade 

In  the  summer  time; 
The  maple  will  keep  you  dry 

Until  the  shower's  end; 
The  willow  is  gentle 

And  the  oak  a  stout  friend. 
But  though  I  live  long  and  long,- 

Amen,  so  let  it  be! 
I  shall  dream  of  eucalyptus 

Growing  over  me, 
Tall  and  bare  and  beautiful 

Against  a  clear  sky, 
Blue-gum  and  red-gum 

Reaching  very  high, 
Dark-crested  in  the  sun 

And  glad  to  throw  away 
Wasting  withered  bark  of  self, 

Day  after  day; 
Daring  to  rise  supreme, 

Line  on  lovely  line- 
Other  trees  for  others, 

159] 


BLUESTONE 

But  this  tree  is  mine, 
Though  I  live  long  and  long 
Even  till  I  die. 

Tall  and  bare  and  beautiful 
Against  a  clear  sky. 


[60] 


LOVE  SONGS 


AN  INCANTATION 

O  strong  sun  of  heaven,  harm  not  my  love! 
Sear  him  not  with  your  flame,  blind  him  not 

with  your  beauty, 
Shine  for  his  pleasure. 

O  grey  rains  of  heaven,  harm  not  my  love! 
Drown  not  in  your  torrent  the  song  of  his 

heart; 
Lave  and  caress  him. 

O  swift  winds  of  heaven,  harm  not  my  love! 
Bruise  not,  nor  buffet  him  with  your  rough 

humor; 
Sing  you  his  prowess. 

0  mighty  triad,  strong  ones  of  heaven, 
Sun,  rain  and  wind,  be  gentle,  I  charge  you; 
For  your  mad  mood  of  wrath,  have  me;    I 

am  ready; 
But  spare  him,  my  lover,  most  proud  and 

most  dear— 
O  sun,  rain  and  wind,  strong  ones  of  heaven! 

163] 


A  WALK  IN  SPRINGTIME 

Curly  were  the  ferns 

And  cool  was  the  brook, 
When  my  love  and  I 

Went  out  to  look; 
But  when  we  had  seen 

We  did  not  look  again, 
For  love  in  our  hearts 

Was  beating  like  the  rain. 

Little  pearly  flowers, 

Pearly  rose  and  blue, 
Blossomed  where  we  passed — 

We  scarcely  knew 
That  the  air  was  sweet, 

That  the  earth  was  land, 
For  love  in  our  hearts 

Was  blowing  like  the  wind. 


164] 


A  CHANT  OF  YOUTH 

To  you,  Beloved,  I  have  lifted  my  face, 
As  a  flower,  amorous  of  summer  sunshine, 
To  a  revel  of  light,  a  warmth,  a  wonder— 
I  rest  in  the  glow  of  your  presence. 

To  you,  Beloved,  I  cling  with  frail  hands, 
As  a  miser,  clinging  to  heavy  treasure; 
For  you  are  my  wealth,  my  world's  whole 

treasure, 
My  passion  of  rubies  and  pearls. 

To  you,  Beloved,  my  swift  feet  bear  me, 
As  a  child,  entering  a  wild,  sweet  garden; 
Your  arms  are  all  the  garlands  I  have  ever 

chosen — 
Your  strength  is  my  shapely  tree. 

For  to  you,  Beloved,  I  have  listened  long, 
And  my  ears  remember  a  well-learned  music, 
Your    voice    surging    sweet    through    dusk 

into  darkness, 
My  strong,  flooding  stream  of  spring. 

165] 


BLUESTONE 

And  to  you,  Beloved,  what  shall  I  offer? 
Naught    but    my    life — the    moments    un 
counted- 
Thought,  hope,  and  deed— a  dream  shared 

with  no  other— 
And  my  soul's  little  flame  thrice-lighted  by 

your  love! 
Take  then,  the  love  that  a  woman  would 

offer, 
For  to  you,  Beloved,  I  have  lifted  my  face! 


[66] 


IN  PASSING 

I  have  been  washed  in  joy 
And  dipped  in  glory; 
I  have  been  clad  with  life, 
For  me  the  world  is  new, 
For  my  dear,  in  passing, 
Has  bent  his  face  to  greet  me, 
Warm  as  the  sun, 
Gay  as  the  breeze, 
Gentle  as  dew. 


1671 


LET  THERE  BE  LIGHT 

Through  the  low  window  of  my  life 

I  looked,  and  saw  you  passing  by, 

As  lovely  as  the  light! 

To  me  you  were  the  very  dawn, 

Or  the  dawn's  echo  of  singing  hues — 

The  flowers, 

Or  the  dawn's  answer  from  the  earth- 

Her  ecstasy  of  green. 

In  the  dark  chamber  of  my  life 

I  stood  upright  and  looked; 

My  lips  were  muted  by  my  need, 

And  I  was  silent,  but  I  heard 

That  which  was  more  than  silence, 

Calling, 

"Let  there  be  light  for  me 

In  the  dark  chamber  of  my  life!" 

Through  the  low  window  of  my  life 
I  leaned;  I  saw  you  pause  and  turn — 
Through  the  low  window  of  my  life 
You  poured  the  shining  sun! 

[68] 


MORNING  AND  EVENING 
Sunlight  and  glory! 

Who  is  singing  of  glory  f 

I  am  singing  with  heart  as  gay  as  the  honey 
suckle  vine, 

I  am  singing  for  one  whose  words  are  good 
as  ruddy  apples— 

In  the  morning,  in  the  evening,  he  is  mine  I 

I  am  singing  for  one  whose  voice  has  music 
of  moving  waters; 

Delicate  ripple  and  terrible  wave  and  thrill 
ing  current  and  tide 

All  have  tones  that  he  uses  well  in  talk  and 
song  and  laughter. 

I  am  singing  for  love  of  a  voice  that  was  the 
joy  of  his  bride. 

Star-glow  and  glory! 
Who  is  singing  of  glory  f 
169] 


BLUESTONE 

I  am  singing  for  one  whose  spirit  is  light  to 

burn  and  shine, 
A  heaven  of  sun  or  a  skyful  of  stars  is  he  for 

whom  I  am  singing; 
In  the  evening,  in  the  morning,  he  is  mine! 


170] 


A  SONG  FOR  MY  MATE 

Higher  than  the  slim  eucalyptus, 
Higher  than  the  dim,  purple  mountains, 
Higher  than  the  stern  flight  of  eagles, 
Rose  our  young  hopes,  long,  long  ago.'* 

Sweeter  than  wild,  sweet  berries, 
Sweeter  than  a  chill  spring's  bounty, 
Sweeter  than  a  meadowlark's  carol, 
Were  the  young,  sweet  joys  that  we  shared. 

More  bitter  than  a  swelling  olive, 
More  bitter  than  a  brackish  river, 
More  bitter  than  a  crow's  hard  laughter, 
Were  the  sorrows  we  have  known,  my  dear. 

But  nearer  than  the  light  is  to  the  day, 
And  nearer  than  the  night  is  to  darkness, 
And  nearer  than  the  winds  to  their  crooning, 
I  am  drawn,  I  am  held  to  your  heart. 


171] 


AT  THE  LAST 

When  all  our  songs  are  shut  within  numb  lips, 
And  our  joys  are  small  stars  denting  the 

darkness, 
When  tears  have  been  shed  like  dew  upon 

our  spirits 
And  our  hopes  have  grown  weary  climbing 

unknown  summits, 
When  our  dreams  have  become  red  roads  to 

achievement, 

Or  drab  byways  to  failure, 
And  our  mirth  is  remote  as  a  mist  of  early 

morning 

Vanished  in  the  noonday 
Across  a  level  earth  where  sleep  old  com 
rades, 

The  good  boon  comrades  of  long  ago, 
Then,  dear,  let  us  go  to  the  forest,  to  the 

forest 
Where  through  the  leaves,  green  mysteries 

recurrent, 

Lightly  quivers  day,  no  longer  full-tinted, 
But  toned  to  our  mood  .  .  . 

We  shall  rest  there  at  last 
[72] 


AT  THE  LAST 

Where  is  a  sof Amoving,  slow-moving  murmur 
Carrying  memories  of  Spring's  clear  rapture. 
We  shall  rest  there  at  last  as  we  have  never 

rested. 
On  the  floor  of  the  forest  is  peace. 


173] 


SONGS  OF  AN  EMPTY  HOUSE 


VISTA 

Before  I  die  I  may  win  grace 

To  chant  before  the  kings 
Who  reign  in  wonderlands  of  song 

Where  every  blossom  sings; 
I  may  put  on  a  golden  gown 

And  glow  with  sunny  light, 
Carrying  in  my  hair,  the  day, 

And  in  my  eyes,  the  night. 

It  may  be  men  will  honor  me, 

The  wistful  ones  and  wise, 
Who  know  the  ruth  of  victory, 

The  joy  of  sacrifice; 
I  may  be  rich;  I  may  be  gay; 

But  all  the  crowns  grow  old — 
The  laurel  withers  and  the  bay 

And  dully  rests  the  gold. 

Before  I  die  I  may  break  bread 
With  many  queens  and  kings — 

Oh,  take  the  golden  gown  away, 
For  there  are  dearer  things! 
177] 


BLUESTONE 


And  I  shall  miss  the  love  of  babes 
With  flesh  of  rose  and  pearl, 

The  dewy  eyes,  the  budded  lips, 
A  boy,  a  little  girl. 


178] 


FOOD  AND  CLOTHING 

Yes,  I  live  pleasantly  and  well, 

And  dainty  food  I  eat; 
The  manna  in  the  wilderness 

Was  not  more  sweet. 
But  I  am  starved  for  lack  of  pain, 

The  ecstatic  agony 
That  gives  the  world  the  wren,  the  deer, 

And  you,  and  me. 

White  linen,  very  soft  and  clean, 

Enfolds  me  limb  and  breast; 
And  all  my  days  are  happy  tasks, 

My  nights  are  rest. 
But  I  go  cold  for  lack  of  pain, 

The  ancient  throes  of  birth 
That  clothe  a  woman  with  hard  power 

And  peace,  and  mirth. 


179] 


CHILDLESS 

If  I  had  borne  children 

I  would  have  made  bread, 
I  would  have  brought  honey 

From  the  hive  near  my  door; 
I  would  have  aired  linen 

For  table  and  bed 
And  gone  every  day 

For  my  goods,  to  the  store. 
I  would  have  been  rich 

With  a  dollar  to  spend, 
And  I  would  have  been  gay 

With  the  laugh  of  a  friend, 
And  though  I  wore  cotton, 

And  worked  all  day, 
/  would  have  been  proud 

When  you  looked  my  way! 

Bread  I  must  eat, 

Though  its  taste  be  stale; 
Honey  I  can  buy, 

Though  I  gather  none. 
High,  where  the  fresh  winds 

Never,  never  fail, 

[80] 


CHILDLESS 

The  linen  hangs  white 

In  the  pleasant  sun. 
And  I  go  to  market 

For  needles  and  pins, 
To  chat  with  my  neighbors 

And  learn  of  my  sins— 
But  the  eyes  of  the  mothers — 

What  is  it  they  say 
That  I  never  shall  know, 

When  they  look  my  way? 


1811 


FOR  THE  CHILD  THAT  NEVER  WAS 

O  little  hands  that  never  were 
With  apple-petalled  beauty  made, 

You  might  have  held  me  close  to  joy 
Whence  I  have  strayed. 

O  little  feet  that  never  were 
Fashioned  for  tripping  melody, 

Your  gladness  might  have  kept  me  brave 
On  Calvary. 

O  little  lips  that  would  have  drawn 
White  love  to  feed  you,  from  my  breast, 

You  would  have  been  my  love,  itself , 
Made  manifest. 

O  Child  of  mine — you  never  were— 
No  throes  have  thrilled  me  to  rejoice. 

You  would  have  been  my  conquering  soul, 
My  singing  voice. 


[82] 


THE  END 

My  father  got  me  strong  and  straight  and 

slim, 

And  I  give  thanks  to  him; 
My  mother  bore  me  glad  and  sound  and 

sweet, 
I  kiss  her  feet. 

But  now,  with  me,  their  generation  fails 

And  nevermore  avails 
To  cast  through  me  the  ancient  mould  again, 

Such  women  and  men. 

I  have  no  son,  whose  life  of  flesh  and  fire 

Sprang  from  my  splendid  sire, 
No  daughter  for  whose  soul  my  mother's  flesh 

Wrought  raiment  fresh. 

life's  venerable  rhythms  like  a  flood 

Beat  in  my  brain  and  blood, 
Crying  from  all  the  generations  past, 

"Is  this  the  last?" 

[83] 


BLUESTONE 

And  I  make  answer  to  my  haughty  dead, 
Who  made  me,  heart  and  head, 

"Even  the  sunbeams  falter,  flicker  and  bend; 
I  am  the  end." 


184J 


SONGS  OF  LAUGHTER  AND  TEARS 


A  LONG  SONG  OF  MOMUS,  GOD  OF 
LAUGHTER 

When  creeks  and  ditches  overflow 

In  days  of  early  spring, 
When  shrieking  bluejays  tell  their  sins, 
And  while  the  robins  sing, 

When  new  calves  nose  me  curiously, 
And  tulips  dress  them  gaudily, 
And  boys  play  marbles  merrily, 
And  girls  play  jacks,  I  laugh! 
I  clothe  young  Mirth  in  rich  array. 
And  crown  her  queen  of  every  day, 
I  am  refreshed  and  innocent, 
And  merrily  I  laugh! 

When  fat  men  slip  on  frosty  walks 

And  curse  then*  clumsy  feet; 
When  mincing  ladies  scream  at  mice, 
While  little  children  eat; 

When  debtors  meet  with  creditors, 
When  folly  wins  and  wisdom  bores, 
While    grandsir   reads   and    granddam 

snores— 
With  wicked  glee  I  laugh. 

187] 


BLUE8TONE 

I  hold  my  sides  to  keep  me  in 

And  stuff  my  mouth  to  hide  my  sin — 

They  care  not,  who  keep  faith  with  me, 

How  boisterously  I  laugh! 

When  youth  is  young  in  lustihead 

And  struts  about  too  proud, 
Or  drinks  too  deep,  or  woos  too  late, 
Or  shouts  his  joy  too  loud; 

When  revels  crowd  the  holy  night 
With  ribaldry  and  rough  delight, 
When  maids  wear  daggers  tipped  with 

spite, 

Ah,  me,  I  needs  must  laugh. 
For  though  I  keep  an  aching  heart 
And  know  the  wounds  that  soon  must 

smart, 
Tears    never    quench    the    thirst    of 

youth — 
And  wistfully  I  laugh. 

When  churches  fill  with  hypocrites 

And  schools  breed  happy  fools; 
When  lawyers  would  defy  the  law 

And  cavil  at  their  rules; 
When  honest  toil  loves  evil  ease, 

188] 


ALONG80NGOFMOMU8 

When  platforms  promise  policies, 
When  those  who  should  inspire,  would 
please— 

At  lunacy  I  laugh! 
I  shake  the  air  for  cowards  all, 
Who  start  to  hear  a  petal  fall; 

I  roar  with  ridicule — ah,  ha! 

And  lustily  I  laugh. 

Or,  when  a  hero  braves  the  world 

For  love  of  all  mankind; 
(For  that  great  end  he  sees  and  dares, 
Alas,  they  are  too  blind!) 
By  every  great  thought  he  has  known, 
By  every  shred  of  truth  new-shown, 
He  will  be  more  and  more  alone— 

That  he  may  hear,  I  laugh ; 
And  those  who  fain  would  tear  his  flesh 
But  start  me  to  a  laughter  fresh. 
At  them  I  laugh,  for  him  I  laugh, 
And  comradely  I  laugh. 

With  frilly  flowers  and  babes  at  play 

And  honest  lovers  all; 
When  good  wives  fill  their  steaming  pans 

For  homely  festival; 

189] 


BLUESTONE 

When  greybeards  keep  last  holidays, 
When  sunlight  strikes  through  winter 

haze 
Into  their  sombre  twilight  ways, 

With  wondrous  hope  I  laugh. 
For  all  the  best  of  life  and  death, 
The  birth  cry  and  the  passing  breath, 
With  all  the  gods  there  are,  I  laugh, 

And  happily  I  laugh. 


[901 


AN  ELEGY 

Comrade,  they  have  closed  your  eyes 

And  given  you  a  gift  of  tears; 

They  have  spent  their  heavy  sighs 

Where  none  hears. 

In  your  delicate  fingers  laying 

Chilly  flowers  cloudy  white, 

Weeping,  whispering,  sighing,  praying, 

They  will  watch  with  you  to-night; 

And  to-morrow  they  will  take  you 

Silent  to  her  riven  breast, 

Who  was  your  triumphant  mother, 

Who  is  their  unfailing  mother, 

To  her  broken  bosom  take  you, 

There  to  rest. 

Kindly  cool  she  will  receive  you, 
Comrade;  they  will  go  and  leave  you; 
They  will  weep  again  alone, 
Wearing  crape  in  solemn  duty, 
Who  have  never  dreamed  the  beauty 
You  have  known. 
They  will  weep  again  together, 
Stain  glad  memory  with  their  tears, 

191) 


BLUESTONE 

Shut  themselves  away  together 
For  a  time,  and  with  the  years, 
One  by  one  they  will  forget  you, 
Dear,  whose  spirits  never  met  you. 

Comrade,  they  have  called  you  young, 
But  your  soul  had  travelled  far 
Into  youth  and  into  age, 
Making  greater  pilgrimage 
With  the  souls  of  sea  and  star, 
With  the  songs  the  hills  have  sung, 
Than  they  make  who  call  you  young. 
They  have  said  you  went  too  soon, 
Ere  your  glory  was  begun, 
Sword  unused  and  spurs  not  won, 
You  were  morning  without  noon. 
But  you  knew  it  was  enough 
Just  to  be  fine  human  stuff 
And  to  fill  your  little  space 
With  delicate  grace. 

Therefore  shall  I  feed  my  sorrow 
With  a  steadfast,  hollow  gazing 
On  eyes  shut  against  to-morrow, 
On  the  terrible,  amazing 
Mystery  of  your  folded  fingers, 

[92] 


AN  ELEGY 

When  my  memory  halts  and  lingers 
With  your  spirit's  afterglow 
More  than  they  could  ever  know? 

I  will  make  me  fresh  and  fair, 
Bind  a  flower  in  my  hair, 
Go  abroad  to  meet  the  dawn 
As  you,  too,  have  often  gone, 
Making  splendid  festival, 
Comrade,  where  the  petals  fall 
That  were  blossoms  yesterday; 
Where  the  buds  put  forth  the  green 
That  your  prescience  had  foreseen, 
I  will  sing  my  grief  away 
Into  joy  because  you  were. 
With  the  flowers  in  my  hair, 
And  the  fresh  sun  on  the  dew, 
I  will  sing  this  song  for  you, 
Dawn-exalted  on  the  earth 
That  gave  you  birth. 


103] 


GARMENTS 

Life  has   taken   from  us   our   garments  of 

pleasure, 
Merry   colors  woven   well   we  have  laid 

aside; 
But  we  have  put  on  again  the  old  robe  of 

courage, 

Wearing  what  our  fathers  wore  even  till 
they  died. 

Lads  wear  it  as  the  sky  wears  the  flame  of 

morning; 
Women  wear  it;  like  the  dusk  it  folds  their 

spirits  in; 
And  strong  men  wear  it  as  the  grim,  gusty 

winter 

Wears  a  coat  of  icy  mail  in  winds  scream 
ing  thin. 

Life  has  taken  away  the  quaint  motley  of 

the  jester; 

Life  has  stolen  pretty  pearls  and  laces  from 
the  queen; 

[•*! 


GARMENTS 

Life  has  torn  the  scholar's  hood,  the  veils 

of  the  dreamer, 

And  many  a  little  cloak  of  joy  that  kept 
our  beauty  clean. 

But  the  old  generations  have  given  us  their 

garment 
Of  the  harsh  cloth  and  heavy  that  man  has 

often  worn; 
And  we  have  put  on  again  the  old  robe  of 

courage, 

And  this  shall  not  be  taken;  and  this  shall 
not  be  torn! 


[95] 


IN  A  CERTAIN  RESTAURANT 

These  diners  should  have  sat  for  old  Franz 

Hals, 

For  all  their  faces  are  as  round  as  moons, 
Glowing  with  jovial  warmth  and  creased  with 

smiles 
At  the  turbulent  clatter  of  many  forks  and 

spoons. 

There  is  no  music  and  no  cabaret — 
China  and  linen  both  are  coarse  and  plain — 
But  food  there  is,  such  stout  and  honest  food 
As  tells  a  body  he  has  not  dined  in  vain. 

Behind  a  bar  three  corpulent  men  in  white 
Are  opening  oysters,  one  by  one  by  one, 
Laying  them  delicately  on  beds  of  ice, 
Friendly  and  slow,  as  if  they  think  it  fun. 

Far  back  in  the  room  there  is  a  mighty  grill 
Ruddy  with  fire,  clouded  with  fragrant  steam, 
Where  ducks  and  chickens  and  other  gentry 

turn 
Over  and  over  as  in  a  drowsy  dream. 

[96] 


IN   A  CERTAIN   RESTAURANT 

And  through  the  air  come  speeding  plates 

piled  high 

With  giant  potatoes,  opened,  foamy  white, 
Genial,  impressive  beefsteaks,  lobsters  pink 
As  coral  beads,  and  pastry  crisp  and  light. 

This  is  the  place  of  plenty  I  like  best. 
I  watch  Manhattan  burghers  and  their  wives 
Eating  tremendously,  as  all  men  should, 
To  please  their  palates  and  to  save  their  lives. 

No  finicky  fashion,  no  satiety, 
No  smirking  gesture,  and  no  sour  debate 
Trouble  these  diners.    They  are  one  with  life, 
Now  for  a  while,  though  inarticulate. 

Such  excellent  food  demands  much  company 
Oh,  to  go  out  with  friendly  haste  and  find 
The  hungriest  hungry  souls  and  dine  them 

here— 
It  would  be  good  to  entertain  mankind! 


1971 


GARDEN  SONG 

I  went  into  my  garden  at  break  of  Delight, 
Before  Joy  had  risen  in  the  eastern  sky, 
To  see  how  many  cucumbers  had  happened 

overnight, 

And    how    much    higher    stood    the  corn 
that  yesterday  was  high. 

I  went  into  my  garden  when  Rest  had  fallen 

away 
From  the  tops  of  blue  hills,  from  the  valleys 

gold  and  green 
To  see  how  far  my  beans  had  travelled  up 

into  the  day, 

And  whether  all  my  lettuces  were  glad  and 
cool  and  clean. 

I  went  into  my  garden  when   Mirth  was 

laughing  low 
Through  the  sharp-scented  leaves  of  the 

lush  tomato  vines, 
Through  the  long,  blue-grey  leaves  of  the 

turnips  in  a  row, 

Where  early  in  the  every-day  the  dew 
shakes  and  shines. 

198] 


GARDEN  SONG 

Oh,  Rest  had  fallen  away  from  the  valleys 

green  and  gold, 
From  the  tops  of  blue  hills  that  were  quiet 

all  the  night, 
But  the  big  round  Joy  was  rising  busy  and 

bold 

When  I  went  into  my  garden  at  break  of 
Delight. 


A  SONG  FOR  MOTHERS'  DAY 

Mother,  you  gave  me  sun  and  stars, 
Great  hills,  and  rivers  undefiled, 
For,  when  you  gave  me  life,  you  gave 
Love  of  their  beauty  to  your  child. 

Without  you  I  could  not  have  known 
The  Spring  that  makes  the  valleys  green, 
The  rustling  of  the  wings  of  birds, 
Or  clover  fragrance  kind  and  keen 

Your  travail  gave  me  all  my  joys, 
Laughter  and  talk  and  young  delight 
And  dreams  that  float  like  clouds  in  heaven 
High,  high  above  me,  shy  and  white. 

For  all  these  proud  and  lovely  things 
Thanks  are  too  small  a  thing  to  give — 
Mother,  I  thank  you  with  my  love, 
Who  gave  me  this  good  life  to  live. 


[100] 


BIRTH 

This   was   the   blessing   of   his   draught   of 

power, 

And  this  the  sudden  ripple  of  her  hope, 
And  the  swift  current  of  their  great  desire, 
The  eddying  wonder  of  their  silent  hours, 
The  rising  flood-tide  of  her  agony, 
The  billowing  beauty  of  the  infinite 
Borne  in,  a  miracle  upon  the  shallows 
Of  their  small,  individual  lives. 

Yet  is  it  but  a  little  human  babe, 
Given  at  last  into  his  reaching  arms 
And  carried  to  the  hollow  of  her  breast! 


[ion 


TO  MY  COUNTRY 

Beams    from    your    forests    built    my    little 

home, 
And  stones  from  your  deep  quarries  flagged 

my  hearth; 
Your   streams  have  rippled   swiftly  in  my 

blood, 

Your  fertile  acres  made  my  flesh  for  me, 
And  your  clean-blowing  winds  have  been 

my  breath; 
The  dreams  you  gave  have  been  my  dearest 

dreaming, 
And  you  have  been  the  mother  of  my  soul. 

Therefore,  my  country,  take  again  at  need 
Your  excellent  gifts,  home,  hearth,  and  flesh 

and  blood, 
Young  dreams  and  all  the  good  I  am  or 

have, 

That  all  your  later  children  may  have  peace 
In  little  homes  built  of  your  wood  and  stone 
And  warmed  and  lighted  by  the  love  of  man ! 


102] 


SONGS  OF  SUN  AND  SHADOW 

I 

I  saw  a  golden  horseman 
Ride  upward  out  of  dawn, 

Upon  a  golden  stallion 

On  the  trails  of  heaven  gone; 

And  I,  who  travelled  slowly 
Through  drab  and  level  days 

Looked  upward  out  of  sorrow 
In  ecstasies  of  praise. 

I  said,  "Lo,  one  is  golden 
And  rides  beyond  my  soul 

And  climbs  the  hills  of  heaven 
In  fiery  caracole!" 

I  said,  "Lo,  one  has  glory, 
The  heavens'  gallant  guest!" 

But  he  rides  in  dying  splendor 

Through  the  far  gates  of  the  West! 

11031 


BLUESTONE 


II 

My  life  is  like  a  shadow,  a  shadow,  a  shadow, 
With  soft  grey  feet  that  patter  down 

A  path  of  waning  light; 
And  where  the  shadow  passes  is  only  rustling 

laughter 

That  rushes  to  the  mighty  dark 
Of  the  low-lying  night. 

And  all  my  days  go   dreaming,  dreaming, 

dreaming 
Of  the  declining  summer  time 

And  the  descending  sun, 
Beseeching  him  to  waken — O  fallen  sleeper, 

waken! 

But  he  goes  silently,  who  knows 
The  laughing  day  is  done. 


1104] 


SONGS  OF  SUN   AND  SHADOW 


III 

The  shadows  come  and  fold  us  in 

And  hold  us  through  the  long  night  hours 
As  the  quiet  arms  of  wedded  love 

In  an  old  silence  sweet  as  flowers. 

These  are  they  that  guarded  us 
Ere  yet  we  knew  the  living  womb, 

And  will  come  home  for  us  again 
To  the  last  candle-lighted  room. 

Oh,  greatly  soothe  and  silence  me, 

Oh,  welcome  me  to  gentle  rest, 
Shadows,  when  I  may  leave  my  work 

And  go  to  be  your  guest. 


[105] 


TIME-SHADOWS 

Time-Shadows  perish;  there  is  no  lovely 
shadow 

But  must  fade  out  in  dull,  inglorious  dust. 

Deeds  have  no  death.  They  were  rooted  in 
the  Beginning; 

Up  toward  the  topmost  skies  of  Tune  they 
thrust 

Their  branching  beauty,  living  and  ever 
lasting, 

Or  their  poor  ugliness,  because  they  must. 

Dreams  are  undying.    They  are  the  rich  sap 

moving 

In  the  tree  of  life  to  prosper  lovely  deeds; 
Upwelling    out    of   the   past    they   fill    the 

branches 

And  are  the  food  whereon  all  beauty  feeds; 
They  are  the  zest  of  virtue  in  the  bless6d, 
The  power  in  labors  and  the  faith  in  creeds. 

We  are  Time-Shadows,  surely,  and  we  perish; 
These  lips  that  drink,  these  lungs  that  love 
the  air, 

U06] 


TIME-SHADOWS 

These  hands   that  have  the  strength  and 

skill  to  fashion 

Soon  will  be  light  enough  for  wind  to  bear. 
To-morrow  and  to-morrow  and  to-morrow 
For  water  and  air  and  earth  they  will  not  care. 

But  these  that  we  have  known,  the  fluent 

dreaming 
And  the  hard  doing,  will  live  when  we  must 

die; 

Oh,  may  they  flourish  with  immortal  beauty 
Out  of  our  lives,  growing  as  Time  goes  by, 
Forever  and  forever  and  forever 
Thrusting  new  blossoms  toward  the  topmost 

sky! 


[107] 


WHIMS  FOR  POETS 


THE  WINDS 

The  wind  blew  north,  the  wind  blew  south, 
The  wind  blew  cherries  into  iny  mouth, 
The  wind  blew  a  wild  rose  into  my  hair 
And  a  pin  of  gold  to  hold  it  there. 

The  wind  blew  east,  the  wind  blew  west, 
The  wind  blew  a  dagger  against  my  breast, 
And  thorny  boughs  it  blew  in  my  way, 
And  I  was  wounded,  day  after  day. 

Now  all  the  life  of  the  world,  I  find, 
Is  a  whim  of  the  winds,  be  it  cruel  or  kind. 
Oh,  meet  them  singing,  as  they  rush  forth, 
Blowing  east  and  west,  or  south  and  north! 


I  mi 


TO  SEANCHAN 

(In  "At  the  King's  Threshold" 
by  William  Butler  Yeats) 

We  have  been  too  humble,  Seanchan, 
Humble  as  you  were  proud ; 
We  have  left  the  royal  table 
For  the  platters  of  the  crowd; 
And  we  eat  what  they  have  broken, 
And  we  drink  what  they  will  leave, 
But  we  hear  when  they  have  spoken 
And  we  suffer  when  they  grieve. 


H12] 


DUTY 

I  should  be  working  on  a  book 
To  earn  a  thousand  dollars, 

Or  win  a  dim,  respectful  look 
From  musty,  dusty  scholars; 

This  duty  has  not  troubled  me 
All  day;  I  have  been  singing 

In  open  meadows  merrily, 
Near  new  brambles  springing, 

Near  field-sparrows  nesting 

Where  blackberry  blossoms  nod, 

And  now — I  am  resting 
On  the  soft,  green  sod. 


1113] 


IF  THEY  WILL  NOT  HEAR  ME 

If  they  will  not  hear  me,  shall  I  sing  another 

song, 

Louder  yet,  or  longer,  or  livelier,  to-day? 
Shall  I  steal  a  passion  that  my  music  may 

be  strong? 

Shall  I  steal  a  frolic  that  my  music  may 
be  gay? 

Thrushes  sing  their  own  song  over  again 

and  over; 
Larks  sing  their  own  song  wherever  they 

may  fly; 
Robins  sing  their  own  song,  hopping  in  the 

clover 

Of  my  cool,  wet  lawn.     db-e  they  braver 
than  I? 


[1141 


SONGS  I  SANG  LONG  AGO 

Songs  I  sang  long  ago 
I  would  forget;    I  do  not  know 
Why  I  sang  shrilly,  frailly, 
Crudely,  harshly,  poorly,  palely. 
But  the  little  song  I  sang  last  night 
Is  the  song  of  my  delight, 
Dearest  of  all  the  songs  of  men, 
And  will  be— till  I  sing  again  1 


11181 


CALIFORNIA  POEMS 


THE  MOUNTAIN  LILAC  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

NEAR  SAN  DIEGO 

Upon  the  hills, 

Upon  the  little  foothills, 

Out  there,  beyond  the  pungent  sage  of  the 

mesa, 

A  film  of  blue  has  shadowed  the  soft  green 
That  followed  the  rains  of  spring. 
And  into  the  mountains 
Far  beyond  the  foothills, 
A  film  of  fine  elusive  blue  is  rising, 
Even  as  smoke  might  rise  from  spreading  fires 
Long  smouldering  near  the  earth. 

The  golden  sun  pitched  camp  upon  the  hills, 
After  the  long,  grey  rains  had  washed  them 

clean; 
And  where  he  touched  it,  and  where  his 

fingers  wandered, 
The  earth,   grown  hot  with   pride  in  his 

bright  beauty, 
Gave  back  this  smoke, 

[1191 


BLUESTONE 

Soon  to  be  broken  by  the  flaring  flame 

Of  mimulus  and  tarweed. 

Soon  through  this  living  haze, 

This  dear  blue  smoke, 

Will    the    sun-kindled    summer    break    and 

burn 
Upon  the  hills. 


[120] 


A  NIGHT  ON  THE  BEACH 
NORTH  ISLAND 

Where  beach-verbenas  lay  their  little  cold 
leaves 

Upon  dry  sand,  and  lift  their  sticky-sweet 
blossoms 

Pale  purple  in  the  dawn,  and  where  the 
primrose, 

With  healthy  golden  passion  fights  the  tides 

For  space  hi  which  to  flaunt  her  echoed  sun 
light, 

There  after  hours  upon  the  tossing  water, 

Utterly  weary,  we  lay  down  to  rest. 

And  there  came  near  to  us  the  blessed 
Night 

Who  covered  us  with  peace.  And  there  we 
met 

The  Morning,  with  all  gladness  in  her  eyes. 


121 


THESE  FOR  ME 

Tuberoses  for  fragrance, 
Orchids  for  mystery- 
Have  them,  if  you  care  for  them, 
But  once  again,  before  I  die, 
These  for  me — 
The  sharp  scent  of  wild  sage, 
Blossoming,  fretted  by  bees, 
When  Spring  rolls  clouds  away 
From  a  southern  mesa, 
And  the  rare  sight  of  yucca 
Blooming  stark  and  white  in  blue  twilight 
On  the  banks  of  the  Sacramento— 
For  fragrance,  for  mystery, 
These  for  me. 


11221 


THE  FOG  COMES  IN  AT  NIGHT 
SAN  DIEGO  HAKBOR 

A  little  while  ago  the  sky  was  clear, 
A  wild  blue  wine  for  our  young  eyes  to  drink, 
A  wine  in  which  the  stars,  like  jolly  bubbles, 
Rose  sparkling  from  the  depths.    And  while 

we  looked, 

A  milky  cloud  flooded  the  splendid  cup 
And  hid  the  bubble  stars,  and  made  opaque 
That  which  our  eyes  were  drinking,  but  our 

spirits 
Drank  yet  more  deep  of  a  wonder  yet  more 

dear! 


123] 


TO  THE  SUMMER  SUN 

COKONADO 

Great  sun,  why  are  you  pitiless? 
All  day  your  glance  is  hard  and  keen 
Upon  the  hills  that  once  were  green, 
Where  Summer,  sere  and  comfortless, 
Now  lies  brown-frocked  against  the  sky 
And  makes  of  them  her  resting  place, 
Since  she  has  drunk  the  valleys  dry. 
You  never  turn  away  your  face, 
And  I,  who  love  you,  can  not  bear 
Your  long,  barbaric,  searching  look 
Down  through  the  low  cool  flights  of  air — 
Your  tirelessness  I  can  not  brook; 
For  all  my  body  aches  with  light, 
And  you  have  glutted  me  with  sight, 
With  flooding  color  made  me  blind 
To  homely  things  more  soft  and  kind, 
Till  I  have  longed  for  clouds  to  roll 
Between  you  and  my  troubled  soul — 
Oh,  great  Beloved,  hide  away 
That  I  may  miss  you,  for  a  day! 

[1241 


THE  PAGEANT 


THE  PAGEANT 

Forever  is  a  long  road ;  Forever  is  a  highway 
Whereon  go  marching  through  arching  nights 

and  days 
Proud  Dreams  with  golden  crowns  fair  upon 

their  foreheads, 
Shining    Dreams    with    haloes    and    bright 

Dreams  with  bays, 
And  all  along  the  flowered  edge  the  little 

Dreams  go  dancing, 
Singing  gay  canticles  of  praise. 

Forever  is  a  broad  road  where  have  met  to 
gether 

Brave  Deeds  in  red  robes  and  Deeds  of 
golden  fire, 

Grave  Deeds  in  silver  gowns,  quaint  Deeds  in 
motley, 

Quiet  Deeds  in  homely  grey  that  only  saints 
admire, 

Gentle  Deeds  that  love  the  green  raiment  of 
the  summer, 

Pure  Deeds  in  very  white  without  the  chill  of 
snow, 

11271 


BLUESTONE 

Squalid  Deeds  in  dull  rags,  pitiful  and  ugly, 
Down  the  broad  highway  they  go. 

All  the  Dreams  are  living  still,  all  the  Deeds 

are  working,— 
White  man  and  yellow  man  and  black  man  at 

last 
Will  join  hands  and  teach  their  feet  how  to 

walk  together, 
Following  slowly  where  their  Dreams  would 

have  them  follow  fast, 
Where  the  Dreams  with  golden  crowns,  the 

shining  Dreams  with  haloes, 
And  the  Dreams  with  bays  have  passed. 

All  the  Dreams  will  succor  them,  giving 
power  and  beauty, 

Fostering  Deeds  in  red  and  grey,  Deeds  in 
gold  and  black, 

Helping  Deeds  in  silver  gowns  to  triumph  in 
their  going 

Down  the  everlasting  road  where  is  no  turn 
ing  back. 

Speaking  out  of  silences,  shining  out  of 
shadows, 

1128] 


THE    PAGEANT 

Telling  what  men  never  tell,  showing  what 

they  are, 
Though  they  taste  a  bitter  death,  making 

them  immortal, 
Dreams  have  gone  out  to  travel  far. 

Forever  is  a  long  road;  Forever  is  a  highway 
Whereon  go  marching  through  arching  day 

and  night, 
Old  Dreams  from  long  ago,  carrying  their 

lanterns, 
Young  Dreams  from  yesterday,  bearing  rosy 

light, 
And  little  Dreams  not  yet  come  true,  pulling 

wayside  blossoms 
To  twinkle  in  their  hands,  starry  white. 


Printed  in  the  United  State*  of  America 


129] 


17   1933 
APR    9     1 


Nov  *iB«7 


tD2>-sow. 


1,'38 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


